we fight the bull--because our toreadors risk their lives every moment that they are in the ring, fighting a savage, maddened animal five times larger and stronger than themselves. You call us cruel--you, who have to found a Society in order to stop cruelty to your little children. My friend, there is no society like that in Spain, for no society like that is necessary. The most depraved Spaniard, town or countryman, would never dream of raising his hand against a child. And your countrymen, in face of that building, which is open day and night, and supports a staff of five hundred, call the Spaniards cruel! My friend, yours surely must be the cruellest people on earth." And I had no answer for him, because I knew. I knew what Mr. Robert Parr had told me: and I knew why little girls of twelve and thirteen are about the dripping mouths of the Shadwell alleys at all queer hours. You will understand why some men, fathers of little girls, suddenly have money for beer when a foreign boat is berthed. You will appreciate what it is that twists its atmosphere into something anomalous. You remember the gracious or jolly fellows you have met, the sweet, rich sea-chanties you have heard; and then you remember other things, and the people suddenly seem monstrous, the spirit of the place bites deep, and the dreadful laughter of it shocks. A SUNDAY NIGHT ANYWHERE _SUNDAY TEA-TIME_ _There is a noise of winkles on the air, Muffins and winkles rattle down the road, The sluggish road, whose hundred houses stare One on another in after-dinner gloom._ "Peace, perfect Peace!" _wails an accordion,_ "Ginger, you're barmy!" _snarls a gramophone._ _A most unhappy place, this leafless Grove In the near suburbs; not a place for tears Nor for light laughter, for all life is chilled With the unpurposed toil of many years. But once--ah, once!--the accordion's wheezy strains Led my poor heart to April-smelling lanes._ A SUNDAY NIGHT ANYWHERE